by Kira Peikoff
Underneath my window, the engine hums and a door opens.
A tingle runs over my arms. It must be the cops. Someone must have figured out that I stole my mom’s DNA, and now they’ve come to get me …
Holding my breath, I leap to the windowsill and peek behind the shade, expecting to see a swirl of red and blue lights down below.
Instead, I see a normal car. Black or navy; I can’t tell in the dark. Then a shadow-person gets out and walks quickly onto our driveway, where my parents’ two cars are parked. My relief turns to fresh panic. Does the person want to break in?
I cup my hands around my eyes, but I can barely make out anything. The stranger is sort of short, I think, and bundled up in a puffy jacket with the hood up. I can’t see any hair. I think of the extra alarm system my parents just installed. God, I hope they turned it on tonight.
I’m about to rush to their room when I notice the person drop underneath my mom’s car. He or she must have spotted me in the window and is trying to hide.
“Mom!” I yell, without leaving my post. “Dad!”
I hear them jump out of bed and run down the hallway. At the same time, the shadow-person pops up, sprints back to the dark car, and drives away. As my parents run into my room, the car disappears into the night.
“What happened?” my mom cries, rushing in with my dad. They’re both frantic and wide awake. “Are you okay?”
“I think someone was about to break in.” I point outside. “But they just drove off.”
Mom lowers herself onto my bed. She and Dad exchange a look that seems like some kind of message—like they know something I don’t.
“Was it a man or woman?” Dad asks me.
“I couldn’t tell. Should we call the police?”
He gazes outside. “You didn’t see a license plate or anything?”
I shake my head. “Sorry.” I hop off the windowsill and go sit beside my mom.
“Okay.” He bites his lip, still scanning the street. “If you see anything else, let us know right away.”
“Can I sleep in your bed tonight?” I put my head on Mom’s shoulder. “I’m scared.”
“Of course,” she says, putting her arm around me.
That’s when I notice her body is quietly shivering.
I have no idea who that person was. But I’m pretty sure she does.
CLAIRE: BEFORE
“Pick up your fucking phone!” I hiss at my cell. I’m in tears, locked in our bedroom, while Ethan’s predictably cloistered himself in his study. I have no clue whether he’s wreaking havoc on our entire life or just stewing in anger. The possibilities are terrifying. Nash deserves to know, to prepare, but he refuses to answer my calls. I fire off a series of increasingly desperate texts:
4:57 pm: CALL ME
5:02 pm: Need to talk ASAP!
5:05 pm: He knows …
5:07 pm: WTF where r u?!
Another ten minutes go by. Still no response. If I stare at my Goddamn phone for another second, I will explode, so I toss it onto the bed and tiptoe to Ethan’s office down the hall.
I press my ear against the door. It’s as silent as a cemetery.
I knock softly. “Can I come in?”
He grunts. I take it as a welcome and push open the door. He’s slumped in his leather chair, back to me. When he spins around, there’s no mistaking his red-rimmed eyelids and runny nose.
But instead of eliciting my sympathy, the pathetic sight sets me off.
“You should be happy,” I snap. “Don’t you want our baby to be normal?”
“Normal?” He snorts. “Will it call you Nuke Mommy and her Mito Mommy?”
I roll my eyes. “I am the only mother. She’s meaningless.” But even as I utter the words, I hear the shrillness in my voice.
“That kid is forever going to be a freak.”
My hands fly to my belly. “How dare you! This is your child!”
For a moment, his eyes soften with longing—a look I recognize from whenever my period was late. But soon his face darkens again.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You, going behind my back, with him …”
“Nash is a genius.”
“Fuck that guy.” He grabs his phone. “Tell me why I shouldn’t sic the feds on him right now.”
“Because,” I say quickly, “because the person you’re really pissed at is me. So punish me, hate me, but keep this between us. A family issue.”
I hope my emphasis will snap him out of his impulsiveness. Whenever we feel defeated by grief, we keep hope alive by talking of the family we might one day still share. Family traditions, family dinners, family trips. Family anything is our special shorthand for our happily ever after.
My gamble appears to have worked. He puts the phone down.
“For now,” he allows. “I haven’t made up my mind about anything yet.” Then he looks me straight in the eye. “Including you.”
* * *
JILLIAN
Forty-five minutes after Nash leaves my apartment, both of us disheveled and satisfied, my cell rings.
I’m in the shower, deliciously sore, when I hear it buzzing on the sink.
I almost let it go to voice mail, except that it might be him. I peek past the curtain and see his name lighting up the screen, so I hop out.
“Miss me already?”
“Listen.” His voice sounds weirdly stiff. “We’re in deep shit. No time to explain. Pack a bag and get over to my place.”
“What happened?”
“Claire blew our cover.”
I sink to the toilet. “Oh my God. Where are you?”
“Heading back to the clinic. I’m going to move the leftover embryo to a storage bank off-site, and I’ve already contacted a lawyer, just in case.”
“In case …?”
“I hope we don’t need to find out. But I think you should come stay with me tonight.”
Naked and dripping wet, I race out of the bathroom to get dressed. “I’m on my way.”
ABBY: NOW
When school lets out, it’s pouring outside. Mom’s car is usually one of the first in the pickup area, but by two forty-five PM, she’s still not there. At three PM, I know something is wrong. She’s never been this late. Her phone rings and rings and goes to voice mail. I text her a few times: Where are you?! Still waiting. Helloooo? MOM???
Eventually, I give up and call my dad.
He tells me he’s in the middle of a big deadline for a customer, but when I explain, he drops everything and comes to get me. When he shows up around three thirty, the last parent to arrive, his worried face fills me with fear. I figured he would know what’s going on, but he doesn’t.
“Where could she be?” I ask as I climb in the car.
“No idea. I just stopped by home.”
“Nothing?”
He shakes his head, checking his flip phone’s tiny gray screen.
“And I texted her like ten times.”
His brow creases. “How did she seem when she dropped you off earlier?”
“Fine, I guess.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary?”
“I mean, she’s been weird for a while now.”
He skips the left turn toward our house and keeps on going. “Weird how?”
“I don’t know, like, distracted. Stressed. Do you know why?”
He looks uncomfortable. “Abs, your mother has … ups and downs. More than most people.”
I get the feeling he’s not telling me something. “Is she okay?”
He presses his lips together. “I hope so. But I’m not going to sugarcoat it. I’m concerned.”
My heart clenches like a fist. “About what?”
“Her mental health. She’s been sick before.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s really not my place to go into detail with you.” He avoids my eyes and makes a right turn. We pass a farm with cows grazing in the summer rain.
“Who was that person the
other night? Who showed up at our house.”
Dad frowns. “How would I know?”
“I don’t know. I felt like maybe you did.”
He stares out the windshield, gripping the steering wheel.
“So,” I ask, my heart pounding, “who do you think it was?”
A firmness edges into his voice. “I already told you, I don’t know. And right now, it’s more important that we find Mom.”
I sigh. “Fine. Where are we going?”
“To town. Maybe she went to Trader Joe’s and forgot her phone.”
“You just did the shopping.”
“I forgot coffee. You know how she is about her coffee.”
“You know, if we had iPhones like normal people, GPS could find her in two seconds.”
“Well,” he snaps, “we don’t.”
I roll my eyes. “Jeez, okay.” It’s so lame that none of us have smartphones; both my parents are freaked out by the idea of “Big Brother,” so we’re stuck with ancient flip phones that don’t even have the Internet. It’s seriously embarrassing. No Facebook, no Instagram, nothing. All we can do is text and call. They also taped over the cameras on all our laptops in case the government is spying on us. And they act like my generation is nuts because we “don’t value privacy.”
Anyway, after we check Trader Joe’s, we walk to the post office, the pharmacy, and the nail salon, even though Mom does her own manicures and rarely goes to the other places. Dad tries to keep his cool, but I can tell he’s getting pretty upset.
When we get back in the car, I suggest calling the police.
“No,” he says quickly, “that’s not necessary.”
“But what if she’s not okay?”
He steps on the gas. “Let’s go home. I’m sure this is all just a big misunderstanding.” But his jumpy energy doesn’t match his words. He can’t stop checking his phone.
I decide to take matters into my own hands. As he drives home, I punch 911 into my cell. He doesn’t notice what I’m doing until the operator’s voice comes through the speaker: “Nine one one, what is your emergency?”
“No!” Dad suddenly cries, grabbing my phone away from my ear.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
“We don’t need to bother nine one one yet.” He snaps my cell closed. “She’s probably fine, okay? Let’s check at home again.”
I don’t agree, but we’re almost there, so I say nothing. The road up to our house is all dirt and gravel, so the ride is uncomfortable, like the silence between us. When our house comes into view, we both gasp.
Mom’s car is in the driveway—and we can see the back of her head in the driver’s seat. Why is she just sitting there? Why hasn’t she called us back?
We both jump out and sprint to her. She’s hunched over the steering wheel, crying, and her face is covered in what looks like brown, wet mud.
A wave of dizziness knocks me sideways.
Mom is definitely not okay.
CLAIRE: BEFORE
The apartment feels like the front lines of a cold war. I no longer recognize the place as home. Ethan and I have camped out in different rooms, staking out our territory. The bathroom is a means of escape; the living room, a minefield of dirty looks.
Our standoff is heading past forty-eight hours with no resolution in sight. Ethan refuses to discuss it, almost refuses to acknowledge me at all, as he goes to work, comes home late, eats takeout in his office, and sleeps on the couch.
But he still hasn’t called the authorities. As the hours tick by, I pray that his threat of retribution is waning, but it’s impossible to know for sure.
Meanwhile, my own drama with Nash has become another source of distress besides being almost eight months pregnant and generally miserable.
Nash hasn’t spoken to me since I managed to get through to him and explain what happened. He stayed deadly silent on the call, then demanded that I tell him right away if Ethan calls any officials. Before I could beg for forgiveness, he hung up.
Now he’s ignoring all my calls, so I’ve resorted to texting him from the privacy of the bedroom, where I’m hiding from Ethan this morning under the comforter.
I’m SO sorry. It would kill me if anything happened to you b/c of me.
I stare at the screen, willing it to light up.
Four minutes later, his response arrives at last:
No news?
His reticence is another jab.
I text back: Nope! Pretty sure he is backing off.
Of course, I have no idea, but I’m desperate to restore Nash’s confidence in me. I think of how he put his hand on mine at the Tangled Vine a few days ago, and how gratified I felt to have been trusted with such a great honor. I’m not sure anymore if I deserve it.
My phone has gone silent again.
To prompt more back-and-forth, I fire off another series of texts:
I hate that we have to be so paranoid. You deserve better and so does baby … her own father called her a freak!
Made me realize I do need you in her life … hope u still agree?
That’s when I hear Ethan’s footsteps shuffle toward the bedroom, so I shove the phone in my nightstand drawer and dive under the covers, feigning sleep.
He approaches his side of the bed, blocking the window’s soft light. I open my eyes. He’s already dressed and shaved, and his face is blankly grim—the sum of all his conflicting emotions.
“Hey,” I say quietly, in a tone I hope is nonthreatening. “How’d you sleep?”
He rummages through his drawers. “I’m late and I can’t find my watch.”
“I think I saw it under the bills in the kitchen.” I throw off the covers and heavily drag myself out of bed. I feel like I weigh two hundred pounds, though I’ve only gained an extra twenty-eight so far. “I’ll go check, I need my charger anyway.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
Progress. Our least-hostile exchange in two days.
I locate his prized Tudor where I expected and plod back to the bedroom.
“Found it!” I call in a singsong, walking in to find him bending over my nightstand. My vibrating cell lies in his palm like a grenade.
He gives me a wounded stare. “Why is Dr. Nash calling you?”
I freeze, at once delighted and horrified. “No idea.”
As my cell continues to buzz, I lunge for it, but he spins away from me.
“Hey!” I cry. “What are you doing?”
“What else are you hiding, Claire?”
“Nothing; give me my phone!”
I watch in growing panic as he opens my texts.
He starts to read select ones aloud. “It would kill me if anything happened to you … I hate that we have to be so paranoid … I still need you in her life.”
When he looks up at me, there is something I have never seen in his eyes: hatred. “What the actual fuck?”
“It’s not how it sounds!”
He rears his arm back like a pitcher and hurls my phone across the room at full force. It smashes into my mirror, shattering the glass, raining metallic shards over my dresser.
“You’ve been having an affair, haven’t you?”
“No!” I drop to my knees at his feet. “I swear to God!”
“But he had his hand on yours; I saw it myself. When are you going to stop lying to me?”
“I’m not lying!” The lump in my throat gives way to hot, frantic tears. “There’s nothing between us and there never has been.”
“You think I’m an idiot? You make me sick.”
Before I can stop him, he whips out his own phone and taps angrily on the screen.
“What are you doing?”
“Giving that motherfucker what he deserves.”
“No, Ethan!” I leap at him, but he steps out of the way easily and I lose my balance. The shock of falling on my hands and knees takes my breath away, but he doesn’t come over to help. Instead he holds the phone to his ear and speaks in a low, shaking voice.
“Yes, h
i, this is Dr. Ethan Abrams from Columbia. I’m calling for Director Lee.” There’s a pause, and my entire body goes rigid. I feel the punishment before he utters it.
“Tell him I have a criminal violation to report.”
* * *
JILLIAN
Sitting at Nash’s granite counter sipping coffee feels like the most natural thing in the world. I could get used to living in his apartment. Waking up beside him, coming home to him. Thanks to Claire’s unbelievable screw-up, our intimacy is no longer just about sex. In two days, the danger has elevated our relationship to a whole new level. We’re on the same lifeboat now.
Truth be told, the threat is a tad thrilling. I relish his protectiveness, his insistence that we both skip work for the week to prepare for the worst. After hours of discussion over the last few days, he has convinced me that if shit hits the fan, we’re not going to run. We will man up and fight. No point in abandoning our whole lives because some asinine law has made us out to be felons.
“Round two?” he asks me now, standing on the other side of the breakfast bar with the coffee pot aloft.
“Sure.”
He pours more of the Kona dark roast that smells like heaven. “I just got a text from Claire. Seems like it was all a big false alarm.”
“Oh yeah?” My heart sinks, and I realize why: it means our normal, separate lives can resume. “How can she be sure?”
“I don’t know. I tried calling; no answer.” He sips from his own mug. “But I think we should go back to work today. No point in hunkering down here forever.”
“Right.” I bury my face in my cup and wait for his invitation that is surely imminent. Stay one more night?
But when I glance up, he’s staring at his phone, no doubt trying to get back in touch with her.
“I don’t get why she’s not picking up.”
“Whatever. I’m going to go take a shower … care to join?”
“You go ahead.” He taps at his screen. “I’ll catch up.”
I slide off my stool, but can’t quite bring myself to leave. “Are we going to tell everyone at work?”
He frowns. “About Claire?”
“No, silly.” I shoot him a meaningful look. “About us.”
“Oh. I don’t see why. None of their business.”
